


Convictions

by Northern_Nightingale



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-24
Updated: 2019-02-21
Packaged: 2019-09-25 22:09:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,442
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17129627
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Northern_Nightingale/pseuds/Northern_Nightingale
Summary: Jo used to be a soldier. Not anymore.She had chosen to distance herself from the difficult decisions of caring and the ordained acts of following, only to become a baker in post-Blight Redcliffe. From there, we follow her relocation to Haven, and the - involuntary - journey to rediscover meaning and belonging.





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am not a native speaker, so mistakes are unavoidable, I guess.  
> If you see any, let me know!

* _The forest is on fire._  
That's the first thought passing through her panicked mind. Heart racing, breath uneven, eyes trembling and watering under the strain of not blinking, sword and shield rattling, clutched in gauntleted hands.

A lighting cracked overhead, illuminating the scene around her, one she'd lived countless times before. Chilling raindrops tinging on metal, dogs barking in anticipation, uncertain feet sliding on mud. The wind that blew through the visor of her helmet carried the smell of wet soil, fur, sweat, and incense; it reeked of desperation. Yet the only thing she saw, over the sea of helmeted heads in front of her, was the burning forest. Concentrated on the flames as she was, she began to see clearly despite the distance. The forest was not on fire; it was hundreds, maybe thousands, of torches moving towards her, accompanied by the guttural grunting of beings that shouldn't be...  
  
_This is how it ends._  
She heard the first arrows being shot somewhere ahead, then the barks, and the high-pitched cries of gravely injured animals.  
“FOR FERELDEN!” the King cried, his voice penetrating her gut like a tangible thing. Her blade and shield clattered on the pebbled ground as her hands clutched her abdomen to stop the bleeding, but the gauntlet she raised in front of her eyes came up clean. In shock, she looked back up towards the screams just as the battle was beginning and the rain was still falling. A few drops slid on her cheek and touched her dry lips, seeping into the cracked skin and stinging with their saltiness. Tears from the sky.  
_The Maker is grieving, for He is abandoning His children today._

The sky roared with fire and stone, the earth rumbled under the weight of the living and the dead and those in-between. The beacon atop the Tower of Ishal burst into flame along with every last shred of hope in her heart.  
_N-No..._  
“Pull out! All of you, let's move!” the Captain's voice echoed inside her head, canceling every other sound, leaving a dizzying ringing in its wake.  
_No._  
Everyone around her was moving and she was desperately trying to stay still, to pick up her weapon, to run and fight, to defy the fear and the lingering pain in her gut and stand up to the Darkness, the Death, the Blight, but the bodies surrounding her became a current she couldn't possibly resist.  
_NO!_  
She tried to scream but nothing came out of her mouth but a strangled sob.  
_NNOOOO!!!_ *  
  
“....ooooo!” She woke up with a violent convulsion, drenched in sweat and tears. An angry scream escaped her lips involuntarily and she punched the straw mattress beneath her with all her rage-induced strength. “It's been TEN. FUCKING. YEARS. for fuck's sake!”, she yelled crumpling her wool blanket and hurling it at the wooden wall in front of her, from where it landed on the scratched floorboards. _This will be a makerfucking PERFECT day now, won't it?_ , she thought as she collapsed back on her bed covering her face with trembling hands.

 

ooOoo

 

Haven used to be a quiet place, that's precisely why Jo chose to move there when the restoration began, six years ago. A place only for the pilgrims on their way to the Temple of Sacred Ashes, and for the few people, like herself, wanting to accommodate their needs for food, sleep, and mild entertainment. She had packed her meager belongings and left the village of Redcliffe which was rapidly attracting people from all around the Hinterlands still searching for a safe and stable place to go after the Blight. She knew what it meant to try and build something out of nothing, so she didn't blame them, but it was getting too crowded for her sanity, too much like Denerim. And so she had found herself on the road again, sleeping in a tent near the lake just outside Haven, finally building her own house and her own earthen oven, like the one she used to use in Redcliffe, only smaller; the people were fewer, it was only logical.

So, Haven used to be a quiet place. But not anymore. Now there is a hole in the sky spitting demons, there is a raging war between mages and templars, and the place is bustling with soldiers and all sorts of merchants and craftsmen. Jo used to be the former once, but since the Blight was over she had chosen to be the latter. She was Haven's only baker, former apprentice-turned-assistant of the renowned Milton Fuchs, cook of the ' _Gull and Lantern'_ back in Redcliffe. That's why she was now running towards the ' _Singing Maiden'_ with four hot loaves of bread, two under each armpit.

“You took your time today,” Flissa called out to her from behind the counter as she entered the already cramped tavern, opening the door with a foot.

“Don't get me started...” Jo scoffed, handing Flissa the loaves. “Be careful, they're hot!”, she cautioned her, earning herself a playful wink from Flissa, which she readily ignored looking disinterestedly around the room. “What happened today anyway? The place is too busy for this early in the morning.”  
  
The barkeep's face lit up. “Haven't you heard?” she asked excitedly. “They found who did it!”  
  
“Who did what?”  
  
“Who killed the Divine! She's some kind of uppity Free Marcher broad. She's the only one who survived, apparently.”

“And that's all the evidence they have?” Jo asked with barely veiled indifference. Flissa nodded. “Well, I suppose that's the only evidence they would ever need.”

“How can you be so apathetic?” asked the barmaid, her eyes wide with incredulity.

“That's easy, I simply don't care.”  
  
“Wha-? I can't believe you sometimes! How can you not care?” Flissa shouted. Most of the tables were occupied by that time, and some of the patrons turned to look at the two women with blatant curiosity.

Jo passed her deep brown eyes around the tavern, finally turning back to Flissa, and then replied, voice calm and cold, like the lake outside the walls of Haven. “I don't care because it doesn't matter. I don't matter. You don't matter. Very few people actually do. And it's them that will tell us what to do, how, and when, if they are decent enough to even remember us that is.”  
  
“How can you say such things?!” cried one of the patrons, a middle-aged templar, with rough skin and kind eyes. “This is precisely the time to care young lady! If everyone thought like you do, nothing would ever get done! The whole world would have perished in the first Blight, or even before that.”  
  
Jo chuckled bitterly. “Would that have been that bad?..” She straightened after watching his surprised face. “Just stop asking me _how_ I can be the way I am. I'm not hurting anyone, I'm only voicing an unpopular opinion. And it _still_ doesn't matter, that's what I'm saying! Let me ask you in return, how can _you_ be so blind?” she asked, the accusation making her voice tremble and her eyes sting. “Hundreds died at the Conclave – was that really hundreds? Thousands? - I don't even know how many. But all everyone is talking about – at least everyone that hasn't lost someone of their own there – all they are talking about is that the Divine died. Only one person within the countless lost. One _important_ person. So, if you are just a baker, just an innkeeper or a barmaid, or just a templar, there's no need to actually care. We merely follow orders, do our jobs, and wait for the time to leave this world, most of us hoping it will be later, rather than sooner. No one listens to people like us, no one knows or cares about who we are and what we think, and no one will remember our names after we die.” The whole tavern was dead silent and looking at Jo. Her voice was even calmer than before, even more distant as she concluded: “This is why I don't care.”  
  
The templar looked ready to reply, to tell her what she'd heard _so many_ times before. He opened his mouth, but before he could utter a single word, a blinding white flash flooded the room, followed by an immense thud, like the end of a thunderclap, and a sudden burst of wind that rattled the tavern from its foundation. Light leaked through every door, every window, every crack between the wooden boards of the hastily built walls and dust filled the air. Everything else forgotten, all the patrons along with Flissa rushed out of the tavern to see what the source of this commotion had been and were greeted by the most unexpected and yet most hoped for sight, the Breach was not moving anymore, it was like it had frozen in time. It was still emitting the same sickly green light, but it was decidedly less frightening, everyone agreed.

Jo didn't even look up when she exited the tavern. She didn't talk to anyone, she didn't cheer like the rest of them, her only purpose was to go home and get back to work. That is why she avoided the crowded path in front of the tavern, and the packed entrance of the Chantry, leaving only the empty spaces between the tents behind the ' _Singing Maiden'_ as a route home. As she passed in front of the requisition table, she felt a strong hand fall on her shoulder, hindering her return to the much coveted quiet and normalcy of her humble abode.  
  
“For how much longer will you hide from your duty?” a stern steely voice came from behind her.  
  
“My _duty_? Are you serious?” Jo turned to face the person addressing her, knowing full well not only who that person was, but also how the conversation would pan out - it has happened many times since she'd come to Haven, and a few even before that.  
  
“You know I am. And you know I am right. You are a soldier! Act like one!” Threnn yelled at her, her tone authoritative, as if she was giving Jo an order.  
  
“In case you have forgotten, I am a baker now, and I have been for the last six years. And keep your orders for those who are obliged to obey them. As for duty... Is _that_ what you are doing here? Fulfilling your duty as a soldier?” she asked bitingly, too tired to be civil.

Threnn flushed, from shame or anger Jo couldn't tell – she could guess though. “I am doing what is asked of me to aid my country in th-”.

“Spare me,” Jo huffed. “You were an annoyance, an inconvenience to the king and this was the only way he could get rid of you without causing unrest. So do us all a favor and stop deluding yourself, you are no more of a soldier than I am.” After pausing for a retort that never came, Jo continued: “If that is all, I have to get back to work, and so do you, these forms won't fill themselves.” As she turned to leave she tried, but couldn't contain the little smirk that lifted one corner of her wide mouth at the sight of her former comrade opening and closing her mouth in search for words, like a fish on land in search for water.

 

ooOoo

 

The light coming in through her window had slowly faded from bright orange to muted fuchsia to a pale gray blue. The embers in the oven were already getting cold and Jo had lit a couple of candles to prepare her dinner. Her home was small, just one room, but it was all she needed. A simple wooden bed with a straw mattress and wool blankets, a chest for her clothes and linen, a large heavy table in the middle of the room to serve as her working bench, dining table and desk, three sturdy chairs for whenever anyone visiting actually stayed long enough to require sitting (which was not that often), a larder for the bare essentials for her baking and daily sustenance, and a small casket of ale, and a rickety bookcase with a few dusty tomes that doubled as a cupboard. Almost everything in here, she'd built herself, she only ever bought anything if she absolutely had to. Her self-reliance was a lesson she'd learned the hard way, and it was what had eventually kept her going all these years. It was the one thing that kept her sane.

She was sitting at her table, an earthenware mug half-full with bitter old ale in her hand, when someone knocked on the door behind her.  
  
“Come in,” she yelled over her shoulder and took another swig from her mug.

Adan stepped in, his robes dragging on the floor. “You started early,” he said as he walked over to the bookcase and took another mug for himself. He filled it from the small cask in the larder before he sat at the chair opposite Jo.  
  
“Today was a special day,” she said and raised her mug. Jo was not used to anyone feeling so much at ease inside her own house, but Adan was – if not a friend – not a stranger, and she actually wouldn't mind some tolerable company tonight.  
  
“Tell me about it,” he sighed, clinked his mug with hers and downed half its contents in one long pull.

Jo snorted but eyed him more carefully. The signs of exhaustion were apparent in his already weathered face, his usually well-kept goatee was less defined due to the shadow around it, his eyes were sunken, dark purple circles were showing under them, and he reeked of stale sweat and blood and other fluids Jo would rather not think of soiling her chair. “You look worse than I feel, that's for sure. What happened?” she asked, almost concerned.

His clever eyes met hers and she saw the disbelief in them. “I know you avoid gossip like the Blight, and that's commendable, but you can't tell me you haven't heard about _the Herald_ ,” he said, rolling the last word mockingly in his mouth. Jo simply shook her head and he continued, sighing one more time. “The prisoner, the one who they thought killed the Divine?” Jo nodded. “She's apparently our savior now, the Herald of Andraste herself. Isn't it amazing how quickly the tables turn?” he chuckled shaking his shaved head.

What happened then was something quite uncommon, Jo found herself with nothing more to say other than: “What?”

“You heard me. This lady, Lady Trevelyan, a member of Ostwick's nobility, was quite recently proclaimed the Herald of Andraste.” As Jo was still too dumbfounded to give any reply, he continued with the whole story, after a long exhalation. “As you must know, she was the only survivor, and believed to have been the instigator of the whole incident at the Conclave. And here the madness begins,” he smiled ruefully. “Her right hand is glowing, emanating the same bright green light as the rifts and – and she can close them. You saw how the Breach stopped growing?” Jo nodded once more. “ _She_ did that! She is not a mage! Yet she stopped it, using that thing!” he exclaimed. “In my whole career – in my whole _life_ – I've never seen anything like that.” He drank once more from his rapidly emptying cup. “People say that this... _mark_ on her hand is a sign from the Maker. They say they saw Andraste herself deliver her from the Fade.” Here he stopped, staring intently at the bottom of his mug.

“And... you _believe_ that?” Jo asked with genuine exasperation. “You _actually_ believe that's what happened? You didn't seem the type... Come now Adan, you are a man of reason! How can you believe such fantasies?”

The apothecary run his hands over his face and looked at her. He looked defeated. “That's the thing, I don't know what to believe. I _saw_ the mark with my own eyes. I _know_ that I couldn't save her by myself. Even if I was a healer I couldn't have! If Solas wasn't there... I do not claim to know exactly how magic works, but I've seen many procedures, and this one was different. He did things I've never witnessed before, he instructed me to do things I've never done before, and... I don't know, I simply don't know.” He was talking too fast by now, his voice had grown louder by the minute. After a small pause he went on in a more subdued tone. “She is a simple woman. She looks like a simple woman, she smells like a simple woman, I've been told she talks like one as well. Or maybe she _was_ a simple woman, and whatever happened at the Conclave changed her...” he looked somewhere past her with vacant eyes. He blinked once. “Anyway, whatever she was, whatever she _is_ – it's not that I don't know that bothers me, it's that I can't even begin to _explain_ it. Maybe Taigen would know what to do, what to think, but I don't. I don't.” His face fell in his open palms as he exhaled, elbows propped against the rough surface of the table.

Jo was looking at him, unable to form any kind of response – reassuring or otherwise. He was just sitting there, almost shaking, looking shocked to his core. Adan, a man that was usually so acerbic, brash, and rational, was now scared. And that, more than the demons, even more than the hole in the sky, scared her in return.

They sat there in silence, until, several minutes later, he stood up and, with a mumbled thanks and an apology, left as suddenly as he had come, leaving Jo alone once again. Her thoughts were muddled, filled with memories of the Blight and how terrified she'd been, not when she first heard rumors about it, or when validated news of multiple deaths reached Denerim, but when she finally realized the role she herself had to play in all this, when she realized she was going to be one of the many that might die fighting, and not fleeing. There is something inherently bloodcurdling in knowing that your fate lies in your hands and, subsequently, in your possible mistakes, and not in the acts of an uncontrollable external force. That is what, she believed, Adan was experiencing, for the first time in a very long time he felt he was actually playing an active part in shaping the things to come. By having to search for answers, by helping a woman that people said was their savior, by finally accepting his role in aiding what they were trying to built here after the sky tore.

 _They_ . Who were _they_?  
People she barely knew that had come and assumed positions of power without asking, without any sanction even. Not from the King, not from the Chantry, _definitely_ not from the Divine... Although two of them were her Hands. The truth of the matter was, no one even questioned their authority, or their validity. But these were thoughts she would never speak outside her own mind – what would be the point after all? Returning to the more distancing mindset she was used to, she gradually got over the terror that almost overcame her during their conversation with the apothecary. The reassuring thought that she didn't matter, calmed her. It enveloped her in a familiar, safe, numbing cocoon that simultaneously protected and separated. _Let them make plans and decisions, let them save the world, while I make bread_.

That night, as Jo descended into a blessedly dreamless sleep, what warmed her more than her heavy wool blankets, were the comforting thoughts of sweet insignificance.

 


	2. Chapter 2

The very first rays of a shy winter sun shone over the Frostback Mountains and glittered on the frozen surface of the nearby lake as Haven was slowly waking up to a new dawn. The north wind that rustled through the tree needles, smelled of wet soil, fir and gossamer elfroot and brought with it the insistent calls of nugs, rams and druffalos from across the lake. It was making the smoke emerging from Jo's chimney, dance in soft swirls. Inside the cabin, the baker was already elbow-deep in smooth supple dough, the sleeves of her cream cotton blouse rolled out of the way, her strong arms punching away at the lump in front of her. Some frizzy brown curls had defiantly escaped the bun on the top of her head, falling in front of her dark brown eyes and she was constantly flicking her head sideways in a futile attempt to take them out of the way. Tiny beads of sweat were gathering at her hairline and a splotchy flush had spread over her round cheeks and across the bridge of her freckled nose.

Her mind was once again mulling over the people leading that small part of Thedas she happened to reside in, what she objectively knew about them and her own personal, subjective opinions. Try as she might, she could never _not_ have an opinion on the state of things. She might not care, but she wanted to know why she was not caring, she wanted to be sure that there was nothing to care _for._

She had once been a soldier, and even though that was a long time ago, the mentality had never left her, and so, most of all, she could understand Commander Cullen and Seeker Pentaghast. They were waving Honor, Duty, and Faith like banners over the heads of everyone – something she, herself, would have once found estimable – which were all good values for the people to follow, unless they followed them blindly - something most people tended to do. He was an ex-templar, someone who – if the stories she'd heard were to be believed - knew what it meant to be misled by the ones above, driven to actions beyond ones own morality, and yet he had accepted to become a leader himself. She was the Right Hand of the Divine and a Seeker of Truth, both titles without any meaning left to them, yet she held on to them for dear life, a one-woman Order exuding the power and righteous confidence of an army. If they could actually be better, was something to be judged by History. In her core, Jo didn't believe the Commander or the Seeker would exploit their subordinates, but she had been wrong before, and people in power were often too unpredictable even for the sharpest of minds, one she never claimed to possess herself anyway.

The Nightingale was something like a shadow caused by dwindling candlelight, vague and unreadable. She couldn't place her or her motives, and that was always cause for mistrust in Jo's book. Admittedly, these exact thoughts were the qualities that made her ideal for the position she currently held, but that was beside the point. In Jo's mind, a world where someone like Leliana _should_ exist, was a world that had failed terribly.

Even though they shared a first name, Lady Josephine Montilyet could just as well have belonged to a whole other _species_ for how different she was from Jo. It was no secret that Jo had hated the Game from the first time she understood what it meant, and it was also no secret that people who were comfortable in It, made her uncomfortable. Pretty faces and impeccable manners concealing fatal power games that Jo couldn't begin to untangle or comprehend. Consequently, Lady Montilyet made her uncomfortable because Jo knew that, behind her sweet face and innocent-looking eyes, resided a razor-sharp mind that controlled a honey-dripping tongue, expertly honed for manipulation.

A clever tongue and a seemingly innate skill of manipulation were traits the ambassador shared with Master Tethras, someone who, even though not a person of power, was one of the highly esteemed members of the ever-growing community of Haven. He had written the _'Tale of the Champion'_ , a book Jo had rather enjoyed reading. He was a skillful writer, but that didn't seem like an especially useful skill to have at a time like this. Having a fortune and friends back in Kirkwall and leaving it all behind for whatever it was they were trying to do in Haven, was another mystery added to his name. He seemed like a decent dwarf, but not that decent as to be stupidly heroic. What stroke Jo as particularly unusual about him though was the fact that, despite his involvement with every mission, he didn't quite belong with the people that surrounded him. The only times Jo had ever seen him smile, were the ones when he was bickering with the Seeker – the person that had once abducted and interrogated him, and yet the only one he apparently had a connection with.

The last one of that group was the apostate, Solas. Talk about not belonging... He was an elf, a mage, an apostate – although every mage was one these days – and a hermit by design. Jo didn't know anything about him other than what Adan, who sometimes worked with him, told her. He apparently had a vast knowledge of magic and history, the kind of knowledge that extremely few people in all of Thedas possessed, and he was always calm, but distant. Jo had never spoken with him, she had only seen him from a distance, but she had a gut feeling – an indulgence she usually did not allow herself – that they shared a traumatic experience or two... He looked like a man that had been betrayed and, as a result, lost his connection to the world around him.  
 _Living and surviving are two distinctly separate things_ , Jo thought. _I know which one I chose. How can anyone truly understand what our world has become and chose differently?_

Lost in thought, her hands had stopped kneading, and a light knock on her door made Jo jump.  
“It's open!” she shouted, a bit louder than was warranted.

A young elf, barely out of adolescence, with cropped wavy hair and an impressively square jawline walked through the door and immediately bowed politely.

“Good morning Mistress Reed! I di-”

“Jo,” said the baker attempting to wipe her hands on her soiled apron. It proved ineffective.

“As you wish Mistress Jo!” Jo exhaled through her nose. “I didn't mean to interrupt! But Lady Cassandra sent me to get some bread for the Herald. 'At once,' she said!” she uttered barely pausing for breath.

“Calm down child!” Jo scolded her. “They're not ready yet, so the _Herald_ shall have to wait.”

“B-but 'at on-” the young elf tried to remind her.  
  
“Go, I'm sure you have other things to do and so have I. Once they're done, I'll bring them to the Herald myself,” she said curtly, her tone leaving no room for objection.

 

ooOoo

 

About an hour later, Jo was knocking on the Herald's door with a basket hanging from her elbow. No reply. She knocked again, this time louder.  
  
“I said I'll go!' a gravelly female voice yelled from inside.

Jo opened the door and came face to face with the woman that was presumably the Herald. She was wearing pale, almost white, knee-high boots with pointy golden tips, dark gray leather pants, a stark white blouse and was currently in the process of donning an incredibly ornate armor with the same dark gray and off-white leather and golden scales and tips. She stopped with one arm through a golden dragon scale mail sleeve, the other through the wide neckline and her head peaking under a pointy patch of metal-tipped leather. Her hair was the palest blond, tied in a messy bun – not unlike Jo's – and she was flushed. Her face was angular, harsh and full of scars, some old and lighter than her ivory skin, and some still an angry red. Tiny nicks were marring her thick – some could say _too_ thick – rosy lips and a particularly deep slash run from her narrow forehead, through a bushy eyebrow and, jumping over a hooded olive eye, continued onto a sharp cheekbone, across the plane of her cheek and ended at her carved jawline. Even through the tangled mess of limbs, leather and cloth, her build was impressive, tall and muscular, far from the “uppity Free Marcher broad “ image Flissa had previously painted. _Well, fuck me. That woman is a warrior. If Andraste sent this person, then I might start believing, she knew what she was doing._ Jo smirked.

The Herald frowned. “And who are you exactly?” she asked.

Jo rolled back the towel covering the basket to reveal a steaming loaf of bread, still smirking when she saw the Herald's eyes widen. “Seeker Pentaghast thought you might be hungry after sleeping for as long as you did, Herald,” she said and wrapped the loaf with the towel and placed it on the table by the bed. “Need help with that?” she asked eying the armor.

The other woman scowled, eyed her angrily, but in the end just exhaled and closed her eyes. “Yes,” she admitted. _No moronic sense of pride then,_ Joe thought. _Good_. “They gave me _this_ to wear like I'm some kind of... of... well, not _me._ And this thing certainly doesn't help,” she said wiggling the fingers of her right hand which was trapped above her head. Jo for the first time noticed the Mark. From what Adan had told her, she expected a bright green light, but what she saw was the Herald's palm cracked like porcelain, and from the cracks a faint glow. Truthfully, it looked painful. “Name's Evelyn,” she said, obviously wanting Jo to stop staring at her hand.

“Jo,” she answered as she walked towards her and pulled the armor off of the Herald.

The only sounds that came out of their mouths for as long it took Evelyn to don the unnecessarily complicated armor with Jo's help, were scoffs, huffs and muffled curses.  
“Does it hurt?” Jo asked her as she was finally tying the orange sash around the Herald's waist.

It took Evelyn a while to understand what she was talking about. She chuckled and flexed her now gauntleted hand. “Not as much as when I woke up after the explosion. But it could have been the handcuffs, I'm not sure,” she said. Jo chuckled in return at the biting remark.

“All done,” Jo said.

“Thank you.”

“I don't think you're in a position to thank anyone anymore. From what I've heard, we should all thank you for the rest of our days.”  
  
“Not you too!” Evelyn said rolling her eyes. “I was starting to like you.”

“Don't worry, you won't see any gratitude from me, that I can promise you,” Jo countered with a playful glint in her eyes.

“Thank the Maker!” exclaimed the Herald humorously. “Now, tell me, when did you learn to buckle armor?” she asked sitting stiffly on the bed with the loaf Jo brought her in her hands.  
  
Jo's eyes darkened. “I wasn't always a baker. I was once young and stupid.”

“'Young'? How old are you then? Thirty-four, thirty-five? You don't seem older than me.”

“Thirty-seven in a month,” Jo answered, her demeanor visibly changed. She was standing stock-still with her hands clasped behind her back, eyes focused straight ahead.

“Mhm,” the Herald nodded and chewed on a corner of the loaf. “And where did you serve?”

“Denerim.”

“So you fought in the Blight?” she asked and looked at Jo.

She didn't – couldn't – answer. Despite the cold of the Frostbacks, she could feel the heat rising to her head, her nails dug in the heel of her palm, her jaw sore from gritting her teeth.

“It was made abundantly clear that the Seeker is waiting for me. Thank you for your help, Jo. And for this,” Evelyn said raising the bread, a small smile stretching her lips.  
  
Jo gave a curt nod and bolted outside the door, shoving the gathering crowd that blocked her way to her home, to safety.

 

ooOoo

 

After that day, life in Haven seemed to go on as normal – minus the swirling vortex overhead. The Herald was roaming around the village talking to everyone, helping out in every little way she could, even if it meant not sleeping or eating properly. Jo couldn't help but be amazed. She did not expect that kind of behavior from someone that found themselves in that kind of position. Deep inside she almost _hoped_ that the power Evelyn now had would go into her head and turn her into the kind of person Jo was used to, someone with no regard for anyone else than their own endgame. She could see though that she wasn't like that, she cared, and not with the dignified but detached manner some of her peers had, separating them from the 'common folk', she cared _personally_ for everyone she came to contact with. This was admirable beyond compare, and made Jo wander.

_What if I was in her place? What if I, by mistake, or fate, or divine plan, happened to become the one with the Mark capable of saving all?_

She tried to think beyond the instant fear clawing at her throat. She tried to think beyond the years of indifference she'd conditioned herself to reside in. She even tried to think beyond her own logic, telling her that she never was and ever will be that important. And what she found at that place, beyond everything she had become accustomed to after the Blight, scared her. She hadn't permitted herself to go there for so long, and it was desolate now. What remained was ruins of who she used to be, a young woman of twenty-six, wanting to do good, fight for the everyone that couldn't and, through the terror of that prospect, still someone with the ability to find happiness inside and around her.

Jo angrily wiped at her eyes. _That woman is long dead now, isn't she? I'm not her anymore, I_ chose _not to. How could I ever begin to change who I am?_ Why _would I?! I'm better off this way. I'm free._ No _one needs me, and I certainly don't need anyone, I made sure of that._

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Knocking on doors and shouting has become a pattern, hasn't it?..


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the short chapter, but it's been a long time and I've been incredibly busy, so I decided to share what I've already written - even if it's a fraction of what this chapter should be - rather than wait until I find the time to write again.  
> Also, to avoid any misunderstandings, this is my canon Blackwall: https://staticdelivery.nexusmods.com/mods/728/images/687-0-1442442778.jpg

When she was a child, Jo was constantly pestering her father to read her stories about the Grey Wardens, the protectors and saviours of Thedas. Whenever she picked up her wooden sword, she'd pretend she was one of them, slaying hordes of lumbering darkspawn, played by her easily persuaded mother. Her favourite toy was a griffin she'd made herself with a sock stuffed with socks, studded with chicken feathers she'd gathered from the coop in their backyard. Without being aware as to what that actually meant, she wanted to be one of them. She wanted to train with men and women that thought like she did, become a powerful warrior and, when the time came, fight away the dreadful monsters that preyed on the innocent, even at the expense of her own life; the ultimate sacrifice.

'In Peace, Vigilance.  
In War, Victory.  
In Death, Sacrifice.'

When she grew up, she wanted to become a hero.

And then she did grow up. She started training with other people that most often than not, did not have the same motives. It wasn't that easy becoming a powerful warrior, but she was competent enough, she trained long and hard and honed her body to withstand and to be capable. Subsequently, she managed to join the troop of one of the most respected men in Denerim, Teyrn Loghain, and she was taught that what she used to think about the Grey Wardens was nothing more than over-romanticized drivel, and that they were not the heroes the stories her father had read to her had made them out to be. They were useful, necessary even, but not heroes. The vast majority were thieves, rapists, murderers, traitors, absconders, the list went on, an order built on secrecy and people that were desperate for a second chance, a clean slate, and even a purpose in a life that they had screwed up one way or the other; things no decent person should ever need in the first place.

After the Battle of Ostagar, after the Blight, she never thought about the Grey Wardens again. They had perished while she had not, all these rapists, and murderers, and thieves, even the traitors. Their name hurt her brain and burnt her tongue whenever she spoke it, so, if she happened to hear it, she let the words be just words and wash over her, and she never spoke of them by her own volition. At first, it'd been hard, but after years of practice and determination, she had managed to strip the Grey Warden name from any personal connotations, painful or otherwise. So hearing about the arrival of one at Haven, shouldn't have made her feel a thing. But it did.

Jo, for the first time in a long while, felt the faint flutter of excitement in her stomach. It wasn't intense, but it was enough to surprise her. She certainly wasn't a child anymore, and she knew – Maker, she _encouraged –_ that any sign of irrational feeling should be quenched without preamble. This time, it was impossible for her to do that though, which was a fact surprising in and of itself.

As she was leaning on the outer wall by the entrance to Haven, hugging her arms around herself to fend off the evening chill, Jo was wondering if her sanity had finally left her. _A lost cause even to an idea_ , she rolled her eyes at her poor attempt at self-deprecating humour. Her heart was racing more than it should, and it was growing wilder by the second. When she left her home, the sun still over the lake, she thought that it would be one of those times that some silly idea or other escaped her usually effective logical safety net she had meticulously installed around her heart and that, ultimately, she would see reason and get back before she even got to the gates. But that said heart did not obey this time, and it was making it impossibly difficult for her to think of anything else, than meeting this one person who she, logically, knew was nothing more than just another person like any other, even if he were a Grey Warden.

She tried focusing on her surroundings in an attempt to relax. The sun was setting and everything around her had taken that majestic rose-gold hue. The troops were training under the ever watchful eye of their Commander, and she let herself to admit that sometimes she missed these times of merciless training and incessant banter with her comrades. She missed the sense of purpose she had then, she missed the simplicity of following, she even missed how good and capable she felt inside her own body. Most of all, she missed the naivety she could afford then, due to her simple but happy upbringing, her young age, and her lack of experience. How fast had it all turned sour...

“That's a rare sight! You outside the gates!”, Evelyn snorted and clapped Jo's shoulder with a strong hand.

Jo jumped and, in a vain attempt to hide the fact that she'd been caught unawares, tucked a strand that had escaped her bun, behind her ear. “It is amazing how slow my days are when you're not here to order me around like I'm your personal cook, your _holiness,_ ” she recovered quickly and shook the Herald's outstretched arm in greeting.

“It's not my fault you bake like a Free Marcher, and not like a Fereldan.”

“Yet it's not her job, Herald, to provide you with pies,” Lady Pentaghast admonished her, coming right behind her and giving Jo an acknowledging nod. “It's a trivial matter, to be sure, but-”

“Leave the woman alone, Seeker!” Master Tethras interrupted her while passing her to reach the gate. “She deserves pies, _all_ the pies!” he winked at Evelyn. “Don't you think so Curly?” he asked the Commander who was coming towards them with a wide smile in his handsome, but usually solemn, face.

“Most definitely,” replied the Commander instantly. His smile immediately faltered and his eyes, which were previously fixed on Evelyn, dropped to his gloved wrung hands in front of him. “I-I mean that you have proven your worth time and again, Herald. These small indulgences is the least we can do to afford you even the slightest amount of comfort until our mission is complete,” he added in one breath.

“Thank you, Commander,” Evelyn said with a warm smile gracing her chapped lips.

The Commander looked at her once more, his smile returning along with a blush deeper than the cold could explain. “Welcome back, Herald,” he said, his voice softer and lower than before.

It was Evelyn's turn to avert her eyes with a slight frown, a blush of her own finding its way over her battle-scarred face, looking on her at the same time foreign and endearing. “Glad to be back,” she said and without another word she walked through the gates.

“Very smooth, Curly,” drawled Master Tethras, which made Commander Rutherford to retreat back to his troops without a word, and earned him a glare by Lady Cassandra.

At that time, Lady Montilyet came running, writing desk and pen in hand. “I am terribly sorry! I did not expect such swift an arrival!” she said huffing elegantly and smoothing out her golden sash with the back of her pen. She looked at the few soldiers that had accompanied the party and then at the Seeker. “I was informed that Sir Blackwall was to accompany you at Haven, is he not here?”  
  
“He wished to speak with the stable boy...”, the Seeker trailed off. “Ah, there he is!”

And then Jo, who had remained at her post by the gate, saw him. The first thing she noticed was that he was a stout man, not excessively tall, but his build was impressive nonetheless. The second was that even under his gambeson and breastplate, even with his sword hanging by his hip and his shield strapped to his back, he had the air of a labourer more than that of a warrior. She could more easily envision him working on a field or cutting down trees, than in the battlefield. The third was his eyes. Which was odd since, surely, his most striking feature should have been his bushy forked beard, most of it a deep warm brown, adorned with a few silver strands, to match the thick ribbon of shiny hair that flowed neatly from the top of his forehead, over his crown, coming to a point at the back of his head, leaving the sides of it and the nape of his neck shaven, with nothing but a shadow of hair. But his eyes drew her in, they were deep-set and downturned, under stark eyebrows and even though she couldn't tell the colour from that far, they made her heart that had calmed considerably by now, race again.

“Oh...” Lady Montilyet exhaled, a small sound that sounded suspiciously like a sigh.

“Blackwall!” Lady Cassandra called him over. “Let me introduce you to our Ambassador, Lady Josephine Montilyet.”

“My lady,” he said – his voice deep and gravely, exuding humility and kindness – and took a bow.

Lady Montilyet's olive cheeks took a bit more colour, as she batted her eyelashes, equally unexpectedly flattered and appropriately demure. “Sir Blackwall,” she curtsied politely, “I am here to welcome you on behalf of the Inquisition. I am sure I speak for all of us when I say that it is an immense honour to have a revered Grey Warden amidst our ranks.”  
  
“I am hardly revered, my lady. I am just fulfilling my duty,” he said in his thick Free Marcher brogue.

Following his example, the Ambassador's face sobered. “Duty or not, I would like to thank you for accepting to join our cause, and to reassure you that it is a worthy one. Now, please let me take you to your new home,” she said moving forward, past the Grey Warden and towards the stables.

Sir Blackwall turned to the Seeker and took another bow. “My lady.”

“Blackwall,” she said with a tight incline of her head.

He then faced Jo, and seeing as they had not been properly introduced but she had been there for the duration of the exchange, he nodded to her in acknowledgement and turned to follow Lady Josephine.

Jo was once again alone by the gate, as Lady Cassandra had left soon after the Grey Warden and the Lady Ambassador to talk to the Commander who was presently wrapping up the training session for the day, the sun having just set. Jo listened to the commotion made by the recruits, but her eyes were still trained at the small house next to the smithy, the one Sir Blackwall and Lady Montilyet had entered a while ago, neither of them having exited it yet. A warm glow shone through the solitary window and somehow, unbidden, an equally warm feeling spread over Jo's heart along with scattered and unclear scenes of two people resembling her parents embracing and then, all of a sudden, she hoped...

“Imposing, isn't he?” came a voice beside her, interrupting her reverie.

Jo looked a few inches below her eye level and saw Master Tethras eying her. She knew it wasn't possible, but she felt like he could see things, even she herself couldn't. “Aren't they all? That's how Grey Wardens are supposed to be,” she replied neutrally.

The dwarf chuckled. “I suppose. Have you seen many?”  
  
“A few. But I've never really _met_ one.” _I still haven't_.

“They're just people, you know,” he teased her.

“I am aware, Master Tethras,” she deadpanned, perfectly aware that she was getting too defensive for such a light exchange.

The dwarf's chest shook with soft laughter and suddenly he looked rather pensive. “You remind me of someone, Freckles, a friend, if I have any say in the matter – though I am certain he would vehemently disagree. You think too much, you _brood_ too much.” Jo was ready to object, but his warm eyes pierced her and she felt like a child chastised. “There is no point in living if we're not at least _trying_ to be happy.”

His words impacted her like a fist to her stomach. If she weren't so engrossed by the knowing look he was giving her while he delivered them, she might have doubled over. She honestly couldn't even remember the last time she wished for happiness, let alone her own happiness. She couldn't remember when was the last time she wished for anything, other than peace and quiet and being alone. Yet here she was, right under the Rift, in the heart of a raging war, where 'peace and quiet' were nothing but forlorn hopes. 'Alone _'_? People were all around her, people talked to her, she was not a random nobody here, they all knew her by name, and she knew them as well. The daily repartees, the laughter that came more and more freely, the lack of the once familiar apprehension when exiting her house. She might not have friends, but she had more people than she had realized that came very close to being ones. However, this was not what she had chosen for her life, this was not what she had planned. She felt an abrupt pain in the middle of her chest, her breath came up short and ragged and her sight blurred a little. _What the fuck am I still doing here?!?_

“Freckles...” Master Tethras brought her back with a huge palm lightly touching her elbow and worry evident in his voice.

Jo was determined not to have a breakdown in front of anyone, and, however difficult the dwarf's concern was making it, she could and would divert the subject – and her thoughts – away from a conversation she was not willing to have any time soon. “ _Freckles_?” she asked, grasping at the first thing she was presented with, and that was the use of a nickname he had never used before today.

“Yeeeah, well...” he smiled knowingly, not even pretending not to understand the motive behind her question. He made a vague gesture towards her face and then continued, making it clear that he was not going to press her further. “I'm not good with names.”

“Isn't your crossbow named Bianca?” the corner of her lip twitched with humour – and relief.

“No offense, but she's special!”

“I'm not sure I want to know, Master Tethras.”

His palm spread to the middle of his chest. “You wound me, Freckles! I'm a perfect gentleman!”

“I believe the Seeker would disagree...”

“Andraste's ass,” he muttered as his eyes roamed to where said Seeker was delivering blow after devastating blow to an already destroyed training dummy. “I think she might actually be contractually obligated to oppose me at every turn.”

“Are _you_?”  
  
“Ha! Good one! You know I'm always affable as shit.” He could effortlessly pull off the injured innocent, Jo would give him that. “Anyway, gotta go, Freckles, I have a pint with my name on it waiting for me at the tavern. Care to join me?”

Before she could give her answer, Sir Blackwall's cabin door opened and a tittering Lady Ambassador stepped out, luscious olive skin and chocolate curls glimmering in the candlelight. Jo couldn't hear what was being said between the newcomer and Lady Montilyet, but she felt a small weight settle on her belly at the bashful curtsy of the Antivan as she bid the Grey Warden goodnight and practically _flowed_ towards the gate in a swirl of gold and dark blue.

“Huh, when did that happen?” Master Tethras sounded amused. Jo couldn't find it in herself to reciprocate. “So, will you join me then?” he asked once more.

“Thank you, Master Tethras, but now that our Herald is back, I shall have to return to a rather relentless schedule,” she said with a forced smile. “Maybe another time.”

“Never mind, it's an ongoing offer. Plus, you can make it up to me with one of those pies of yours. I'm in dire need of some spoiling,” he said with a grin. “Oh, and, Freckles? Lose the formalities.”

Jo's smile became a bit more genuine at his words. “Certainly, Master _Varric_ ,” she said with an over-exaggerated bow. Varric left, shaking his head, but Jo noticed that his shoulders were also shaking.


End file.
